


Certified Grade A

by peachpety



Series: Autumn Drarry Drabbles [15]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autumn Drarry Drabbles, Canadian Maple Syrup, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, Percival the Dog, pumpkin spice pancakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27025645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpety/pseuds/peachpety
Summary: Harry goes to great lengths to make Draco his favourite breakfast for their anniversary.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Autumn Drarry Drabbles [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1956262
Comments: 30
Kudos: 138





	Certified Grade A

**Author's Note:**

> Day 15 of Autumn Drarry Drabbles, y'all! The prompt is "You can’t have pancakes without real maple syrup, though." Thank you to the wonderful curlyy-hair-don't-care for the beta, big love, m'dear! Enjoy! xo peach

Harry slams the glass jar of maple syrup onto the granite counter.

Canadian snow clings to his hair and melts into spots on his glasses. He takes a moment to center his equilibrium after the nauseating pull of the international portkey, appropriated for the third time this morning with special permission from Minister Nott.

Thank goodness Hermione is currently ensconced in Theo’s bed because, Saviour or not, Harry didn’t think he'd have been able to pull this off without her help.

Harry’s stomach rolls and he rests his head down on the cool stone.

Draco’s anniversary breakfast sits in stasis, warming on a silver tray, a loving gesture Harry had thought he’d planned perfectly.

The single narcissus in a bevel-cut Waterford bud vase.

The centuries-old Noritake bone china plates with the Malfoy crest.

The fine linen napkin with an elaborate “D” monogrammed in Slytherin green and entwined with snakes.

The correct sterling flatware. Harry was especially proud of the goddamn berry spoon resting in the bowl of mixed berries. 

And of course, Draco’s favourite breakfast — Harry’s homemade pumpkin-spice pancakes.

The same pancakes Harry had made for the two of them exactly four years ago today, on a crisp autumn morning after their third date and a marathon night of blackout fucking.

_Did you remember the chocolate chips, Harry, from that precious little chocolaterie in Belgium?_

The same pumpkin-spice pancakes Harry had now cooked _again_ , after a quick trip to Belgium, and _this time_ with the fucking precious chocolate chips.

_And that perfect fresh-churned butter from that quaint dairy farm in the South of France?_

The same pumpkin-spice pancakes with chocolate chips _now_ garnished with three perfect pats of fucking French butter from fucking France.

**_You can’t have pancakes without real maple syrup, though._ **

Harry picks up the certified Grade A Canadian maple syrup and places it on the tray.

Percival, their Borzoi pup, sniffs at the snow slowly melting on the toe of Harry’s boot. 

“I think,” Harry says with a stabilizing breath, “I think this should do it, Perce.”

Percival swishes his tail. In agreement, Harry decides.

* * *

When Harry enters their bedroom, tray in hand, Draco’s blond head and one elegant hand is the only thing visible amidst the pile of pristine white sheets and pillows. Percival trots past Harry and lays a delicate lick on Draco’s fingers. Draco stirs and stretches. He squints one eye against the morning’s glow, hair sticking up every which way, so adorably sleep rumpled, Harry’s heart vibrates in his chest.

“Morning,” Draco says gruffly. His eyes light up when he sees the tray. “Ah, breakfast at last.”

He levers himself upright to seated and summons Harry’s Quidditch jersey to pull over his bare chest. The sheets and pillows receive a fluff and a smoothing before Harry places the tray in his lap. 

“Happy Anniversary, love,” Harry says, kissing Draco’s temple.

Draco hums and surveys the tray, looking at each item. He moves the vase a smidge to the left and transfers the napkin and silverware to the opposite side of the plate, but the pleased curve to his lips deepens. Harry smiles, victorious.

“Looks smashing,” Draco says, and Harry’s heart soars. “But—” Harry’s heart plummets.

“But…?”

“May I ask—”

“What?” Harry says, cautiously. He narrows his eyes. “What could _possibly_ be missing, Malfoy?” 

The surname merits the eyebrow lift and was maybe a bit too much, but honestly, this is beyond the pale. 

“I’ve fetched the chocolate from Belgium,” he says, “and that crazy chocolate chap kept asking if we were married and saying shit like, ‘oh, zat Draco he eez a fine-looking man’, blah, blah, blah.” 

Percival joins Draco on the bed and lays down, primly crossing his front paws. He watches Harry pace back and forth.

“And then,” Harry continues, voice rising and heartbeat thumping in his temples, “I was chased by a cow on that farm in France. Did you know that cows can run? Really fucking fast!”

Draco picks up the berry spoon and delivers a blueberry to his mouth.

“Not to mention that the overseas portkey literally turned me inside out and I’m pretty sure I left my bollocks frozen in Quebec, which, by the way, was nearly completely closed because it’s fucking 3AM in Canada right now!”

Harry inhales forcefully, sucking air into his lungs. “I mean I love you, Malfoy, I really do, but,” he says, white spots exploding at the edges of his vision, “what more could you possibly ask of me?”

Draco and Percival glance at each other. “Go on,” Draco commands.

Percival jumps off the bed, his nails clacking against the hardwood as he trots into Draco’s dressing room. Draco takes the napkin off the tray, shakes it out, and places it neatly in his lap. He picks up the maple syrup and cracks the seal, pouring a generous amount over the pancakes. 

Percival returns with a small, square black box dangling from his mouth on a red velvet ribbon. He sits at Harry’s feet, tail thumping, looking up at Harry with big, brown puppy-dog eyes. 

“Good boy,” Draco says, a pleased smirk on his lips. He cuts a slice of the pancake and takes a smug bite.

Harry crouches down, heart lodged in his throat. He scratches the dog’s ears and takes the box. It’s plain and weighs heavy in his palm.

“I’ve one more question to ask you, this morning—” Draco says softly. 

Harry pops open the box and stares at the plain gold band inside.

“Will you marry me?”

Harry gulps down a sob. He looks at Draco, sitting in their bed like a prince, wearing his Quidditch jersey and eating fucking pumpkin-spice chocolate chip pancakes with French butter and fucking Grade A Canadian maple syrup. Warmth wells in his chest, expanding until it leaks out of his eyes. With a swish of his hand, he levitates the tray away and dives onto the bed, pinning Draco against the pillows. 

Draco squawks in protest, but wraps his arms around Harry’s neck and tangles their legs together. Their kiss is tender and soft and tastes spicy and maple sweet, an affirmation. 

“I fucking love you,” Harry says, nuzzling Draco’s nose.

Draco caresses his lips against Harry’s. “You must, you left your bollocks in Quebec.” His hand travels south, and he fondles Harry’s crotch. “Ah, no,” he grins wickedly, “there they are.”

Harry bites his bottom lip and grinds against Draco’s hand.

“But for the record, _Potter,_ ” Draco says, grey eyes gleaming, “Grade B syrup is best for pancakes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me indulgently lurking on [tumblr](http://peachpety.tumblr.com/).


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